


Hour of the Dust Motes

by tastyboots



Series: I Eat My Pinto Beans with a Spork OR I Don't Know What to Title This Series [8]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Fluff, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-24
Updated: 2009-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastyboots/pseuds/tastyboots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sleep deprived Chris contemplates dust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hour of the Dust Motes

Chris can't sleep. He watches the minute hand of his clock rotate silently in place until the whole thing reads 8 am. He has to get up soon; brush his teeth, drag a comb through his hair, get dressed, head out for some coffee, but not yet. Right now he's busy contemplating dust motes. 

Chris has been staring off into space for the majority of the night and morning and every once in a while, the sunlight that now streams through his bedroom window catches on a mote of dust and makes it twinkle like what he imagines a little piece of heaven would look like if little pieces of heaven randomly broke off and fell on his bed. That, or glitter. Chris imagines minuscule fairies hiding in the rafters, sprinkling him with dust like rice or confetti at a wedding. Maybe that's where the idea had originated. After all, who really wants little pieces of paper in their hair or rice in their ear. That's how Juliet Lowe went deaf, and Chris is pretty sure that nobody wants to be deaf. So maybe originally it was fairies instead of drunk cousins and dust instead of rice or confetti. Or perhaps the dust wasn't dust at all, but some sort of love... dust. He watches some sparkle in the air above him and he can imagine that they really are something magical. 

At this point Chris knows that he should either take something to help him sleep or imbibe some caffeine so that people won't think he's crazy, but now he's thinking of the dust motes as people. In all actuality, there are probably several million, no, billion dust motes per person, but for argument's sake, and no one is arguing, Chris imagines that every person is a single particle of dust. They float around, eventually settle down, maybe move once or twice, but eventually they all get swept away. Well, not every single one. Is it a perfect metaphor for life? No, but Chris' mind is running on very little sleep and it's the one he came up with. 

Chris believes in soul mates. He always has, even when it got him beat up or teased. So if everyone is a dust mote in a world full of googles upon googles of dust motes, how is anyone supposed to find their soul mate? How are two single dust particles supposed to find each other when billions of dust particles are being swept away every second? 

Chris turns his head so that he can stare at the man laying beside him; tall, dark, handsome, and the love of his life, and as the clock strikes 9 he thinks to himself that he must be the luckiest damn dust mote in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first piece of RPF I ever wrote. Ah, memories.


End file.
